


Grind(z)

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Hermaphroditic Trolls, Intercrural Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Nook Eating, Sexual Dysfunction, Shy Bulge, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grinds," he echoes a little numbly, looking defeated.</p><p>"Almost," she says, leaning over him and peering over her glasses into his one functional eye, her eyebrows arched and lips pursed in a way that tells him her schtick is at least partially self-aware. "Grindzzzz."</p><p>For the kinkmeme: Sollux has a shy bulge and needs persuading that he can still have fun. Latula shows him some sweet grinds, plus some other neat tricks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grind(z)

**Author's Note:**

> OP wanted a troll equivalent for erectile dysfunction, where even if Sollux is willing and excited his bulge doesn't put in an appearance because he gets nervous (also self-loathing, self-defeating, and self-doubting).
> 
> Sometimes as I write "bulge," I think about how if I transposed the letters, I'd end up with "bugle" and spell-check would never know. "Sollux woke just as the last rays of sun filtered over the horizon. He sat up and stretched, and had there been onlookers they would have heard - as though from a great distance - the sound of Reveille being played. It could be said that he was prepared in more ways than one to greet the evening; his bugle, too, was ready."

Irrational as it is, Sollux hates his inability to perform far less than he hates how _nice_ everyone is about it. If it were just a matter of making some excuses or being killed by a drone for the delay it would be bearable, even a little merciful depending on his mood, but the memory of Aradia's helpful interest - "Maybe if we just take our time and work with it," she'd brightly suggested before he lost his temper - is like a lance through the thorax. Feferi, too, bemused but cheerfully trying, the patience of their hands, how both of them treated him afterward like he was made of glass. The memories are awful. "Don't be nice about it," he says as Latula examines his bare legs and the twin lines of his nook and bulgeslit. "It was great wandering around the middle of fucking nowhere in this dreambubble with you and I thought this was worth a shot, but it's not happening and I don't want to get into a stupid useless fight with you, so just don't be fucking _nice_ about it. It's a death sentence for me _and_ anyone who gives a shit about me."

"What is?" She tilts her head, long hair swishing over her shoulder and her lips quirked in a way so familiar it sends a little pang through his abdomen. He thinks that he would like to die, if dying could solve anything or get him out of situations he wants but cannot enjoy, but so far dying has proven remarkably ineffectual at anything of the sort. He imagines waking up in the same dreambubble, the same grassy hill under the same fake night sky in the same position, both eyes functional and able to see his own shame. In retrospect it amazes him that he let her take off his clothes without shedding a single article of her own, that he could feel so overexposed and cold. It never stops amazing him, how quickly things can go wrong. "Hey," she prompts.

"My bulge. I can't do this." She continues staring as he tries and fails to think of a way to phrase it as a self-deprecating joke. "It doesn't come out when I'm with someone else. I've tried. I don't even know you that well. It was a mistake, it was stupid. I'm stupid." He stares back at her, caught between the twin possibilities of pity and disgust. He awaits either of the two with an expectation so grounded that he fails to notice her face lighting up.

" _Oh_ ," she says, "yeah, babe, 'Tuna used to be like that too. He had a shy little chili. I forgot because it was what, hundreds of sweeps ago? Whatever, it's not a thing." Grinning, she pushes her hair absently back over her shoulder and settles back on him, cool and heavy, lush, broad hips and the soft, fleshy curves of her thorax and thighs pressing down on his legs to make him acutely aware of his own body. She looks so flippant about the issue - not pitying, not disgusted, just blithe - that a hot spire of irritation grows in his belly. He bares his teeth.

"No, fuck that. It is a thing. Or the absence of a thing that _should_ fucking be there because it's part of the proceedings, if you haven't noticed," he snaps, ignoring the creeping sensation of going too far. Disgust coils in his thorax and stills his bulge and he waits for Latula's anger to fill him with cleansing shame. She laughs instead, trailing the tip of one fingershield down the closed, tight slit of his sheath. He reflexively snarls.

"Let's see how it goes, if you're still down to try." She traces its outline one more time before shifting back, settling between his spread knees. "Yeah?" she prompts. Her legs lie comfortably over his own. "Okay?"

"Maybe you don't get it. I'm _fucked up_. It's like an amusement park and I am the ride with the sign outside it saying 'closed for repairs,' only I am never getting fixed. You can get in the little car and sit there and go literally nowhere. It's not like I don't want to take you for a ride, I just can't make that happen, so _fuck off_."

"Maybe _you_ don't get it," Latula rejoins, placing a hand on his bare knee. Her fingers are a little rough, fingershields gnawed short, but her hand rests on his skin like touching another troll is familiar and comfortable for her. "I can take you for a ride, you don't even _know_ , you're just all up in your own head psyching yourself out before I can even start taking you on this magical mystery tour of how fucking radical you can feel when a gurl this hot shows you all her totally sick grindz. Because it's fun, for realz, you don't even know. You don't even."

"Grinds," he echoes a little numbly, looking defeated.

"Almost," she says, leaning over him and peering over her glasses into his one functional eye, her eyebrows arched and lips pursed in a way that tells him her schtick is at least partially self-aware. "Grindzzzz. I'm up for them if you're still game. Give me a few minutes and you're gonna feel your doubts going away. Tell me how many doubts I think you'll have."

"I'm guessing no doubts."

"See, you already _know_." She grins triumphantly. "What do you have to lose?" Sollux stares up at her, worrying his lower lip between the remains of his teeth.

"What can I do for you?" he asks after a moment, his voice soft and resigned. Cool fingers press against his thighs to spread him further.

"Just chill for a while." Her hands move up to the inner joints of his hips, kneading gently.

"Okay." He stares warily at her face, the enthusiastic smile that reminds him of Terezi, the strange charisma that draws him to her.

"You're pretty cute, you know."

"Great, thanks." She ignores the sarcastic tone, humming peaceful assent, but he sees a look of amusement cross her face.

"You look like a little 'Tuna. Just the looks, though. But he'd be into this if we were hanging out, he's really into dualities and binaries and shit. He's going to think having a twin is the best. He'll love you. And your rad kickz." She nods at his discarded, mismatched shoes, sitting nearby on the grass.

"So is it okay?" Sollux asks. Her attentions leave his legs relaxed and almost tingling, toes curling to resist the pleasure. "That we're doing this, I mean."

"Oh yeah, he's gonna want in on this shit. You know how cute you look? And this," she adds, thumbs pressing against his nook as she continues massaging. He catches his breath, an audible gasp, and hates himself for it. "Anyone ever played with this before?"

" _Yes_ ," he huffs defensively, too nervous to move or push himself harder against her hands. His bulge twitches in anxious internal twists but the line of his sheath remains rigid as her thumbs rub against the soft crevice of his nook. He can see her eyes through her glasses, her gaze focused intently between his legs, the sight making him tense as a stretched wire.

"He'll love me having a twin too. I mean, I have to, yeah? What's she like? We should all get together." Sollux imagines for a moment how it would be to get into the same situation with Terezi and flushes green-gold at the thought, pushing it from his mind. "Do you like her?"

"Yeah," he says before realizing that his half of the conversation is flagging. "We used to play video games together."

"Fuck yeah, we should all play some games sometime. Anyone ever put their mouth on you here before?" Latula asks, casual as asking him to pass the grubsauce. Her hands move steady and slow, but her thumbs press in and spread him and his heart climbs about a foot before he swallows it back down.

"N-no," he says, repressing the urge to tell her that Feferi had tried but he was ashamed and temperamental and an asshole until she gave up and ignored him for half a night, story of his life, completely deserved, the way he had expected and wanted it to go.

"It's pretty rad."

"You're pretty into saying that word every two minutes." He stops and closes his eye, hatred and disgust coiling in his thorax. "Sorry, it's not you, I'm just fucking sabotaging myself again-"

"Hey," she says a little severely, "don't apologize for shit unless I get mad for realz. I get enough of that. Want to try what I was talking about?"

"On you?" he asks, beginning to sit up. "Because I should do something," he insists as she gently pushes him back.

"That's sweet," she says, not with pity but an amused, gentle tone a little like condescension - _good fucking luck, babe_ \- and scratches the curved, vulnerable seams of his body segments with her rough-bitten fingershields until the pleasure verges on discomfort. "Maybe a little later."

"Am I doing it for you? At all?" He looks down at her and at the demure slit of his sheath, feeling his bulge move shyly inside. It feels looser than before and looks readier, the lips of it flushed and swollen with arousal, but any other troll would be fully extruded and ready for pailing already - no drone would wait for it to happen. He presses the remains of his teeth into his lower lip.

"Fuck yeah, I said you're cute. Wanna feel?" She grabs one of his hands and moves forward, burying it between her legs. Her bulge squirms against his fingers through the tough material of her suit and he shivers at how substantial and thick it feels, the cool bulk of it cupped in his palm. "But let's find out how sweet you are." She slides back down and away, her hands on his thighs again as she lies on her belly - his limbs feel more lax than he had imagined they could, a warm, languid sensation that radiates up into his hips. "You're shaking."

"Shit. Sorry."

"What did I fucking say about apologizing." She grins up at him from between his thighs, the points of her teeth standing out in sharp white against her black lips. He thinks about Terezi again and closes his eyes so hard that dull pain blossoms in his forehead. "Chill out, babe." One of her fingershields rests against his slit again, tracing and retracing the flushed lips until he squirms.

"Okay. Okay." He listens to his own panting, his desires and urges unspooled and visible and ugly. Self-loathing rises like bile in his throat.

"Feels good, right?" she asks, her breath on him, sending chills up his spine. "Feels like you want more?"

"I don't know. I can't do it for you. I mean, I'll try-"

"Do you want more?" she asks again, patiently teasing his sheath.

"What _can_ I do for-"

"Forget that. Do you want this?" she asks. "You don't have to if you're not down for it. You're still cool."

"Fuck, of course I want it, I just can't _do_ it-"

"Okay," she agrees, and leans into him.

"Nn-" he gasps as her tongue presses against him, cool and firm and wet in the slick cleft of his nook. His body tightens convulsively against the coldness and shudders when she moves up to focus on the delicate nub nestled between the root of his slit and the top of his nook - something in his brain hits the realization that tension isn't ruining the feeling when she licks him and he goes stiff with the shock of it as his bulgeslit widens, his back arching, knees pressing up against and pinned beneath her arms as she teases him. " _Oh._ Oh."

"Mm-hm?"

"Oh," he repeats, balanced on a fine point where he can recognize that he sounds stupid without hating himself because there's a delicious electricity that builds in his abdomen when she teases his nub, heat pooling between his legs like her tongue completes a circuit in his body and turns it on. She keeps at it even when he stiffens and he can't push the feeling out or away to protect himself from it, his fingers and toes curled tight and his body taut with nerves. "I can't," he says, opening his eyes but unable to look at anything but the sky. "I _can't_ ," he repeats as she laughs and closes her lips around his nub, the tip of her tongue flicking against it as she hums. The sensation spreads through his legs and swells in his abdomen, his chest, his arms, inside him. Inescapable. "Oh, _fuck_ ," he moans, a strange, sobbing, helpless noise, and wriggles like a worm on a hook.

"Oh my god," she giggles. The tip of her finger traces his impossibly half-open slit without applying pressure or calling attention to it, like it couldn't matter less that he's losing control of himself and coming undone and already exposed in front of someone he barely knows. Everything between his thighs feels somewhere on the verge of freezing or catching fire when she stops. "You're great. You're so fucking cute, I forgot how _fun_ this part was."

"I'm going to die."

"You are not, you liar."

"I already know how it feels."

"If you die you'll agree this was totally worth it," she says with a good-natured shrug, and before he can think of a rejoinder she dips down and presses her lips against his slit. "Mm-hm," she says decisively, thrusting her tongue in.

"Hnnaa _aaah_!" he gasps before the rest of his breath comes out in a wordless, keening sob. She presses further into his opening sheath and, unable to take a breath or control the frantic arousal flaring in his abdomen, he convulses. There's nothing else to be done. The idea of her tongue on his still-sheathed bulge is unbearable, the concept of the sensation already something too intense to deal with, and the way she teases the inner walls of his sheath - just barely shy of his bulgetip, forcing it to struggle against the twin urges to retract and extend, makes him sure she knows it. He moves like he wants to struggle, his heels digging into the dirt and grass, his thighs pressing against her body in a reflexive attempt to close.

"Still good?" she asks, pulling back. His thin chest heaves with frantic breaths.

"I can't, I don't - I've never -"

"Whoa, you're getting more like Mituna every minute. Also like a rotisserie wingbeast. Check out these bird legs and that _delicious cavity_ , hehehe."

"Gross," he moans, throwing an arm over his face as though to hide himself when she leans in to lick at his nook again, making wet, obscene sounds that have to be intentional. Teased open, his sheath glistens gold and teal and mingled jade, the edges of its slit flushed and drawn back in preparation. She snorts with laughter. "Oh shit," he breathes as his bulge begins to slide out, its tip finally visible inside the soft lips of his slit, a stamen half-concealed by petals. "Oh god. What will you do with it?"

"Oh yeah, right," Latula says, sounding more like she has forgotten something than found victory. "This." Her hand presses flat against his bulgeslit, trapping the bulge inside.

"Wait, don't," he protests.

"Don't what?" she asks, slipping her hand to the side just enough to make room for her to press her lips against him again, kissing the exposed end of the tendril. He opens his mouth and a noise comes out, a garbled, wordless cry as she blocks the opening his slit and coaxes just the end of his trapped bulge out between her spread fingers, keeping the rest inside. "See, _now_ it wants out, you feel that?"

"Yes, fuck, okay," he pants, squirming and not sure whether to be ashamed or not. "Please." He's been wet so long that he feels like a gross, desperate mess when her other hand finds his nook, pushes two cold fingers up into the heat of him and rubs hard at his internal shame globes, working with quick, busy thrusts as she rests on one elbow. His bulge twists heavily in its sheath, going from nervous to violent interest even before she takes the exposed tip in her mouth and cups it in her tongue, giving it a long slurp that tightens his nook around the fingers working inside. "H-how do you, how did you get so _good_ at this?" She crooks her fingertips and works his receptors harder as her tongue cups and rubs at his bulgetip, drawing slickness from his lubricating sponges. He feels his heartbeat and every motion of the blood between his legs, an impatient throbbing that drives away coherent speech. "Hhh-aaah. How."

"Practice," she answers when she pulls back and withdraws her hands, the fingers inside him pressing up against his internal receptors the whole way out. His bulge extrudes so quickly that he has the brief, irrational urge to hide how eager it is, how fast it swells to the point of being unable to retract, but despite the shock of his exposure his attention shifts to Latula sitting up and casually unzipping her suit.

"Okay, wow."

"Damn fucking right, wow. Finally." Grinning with fierce, manic glee, Latula yanks down the upper half of the suit in one fluid motion and whips her hair back, planting her fists on her hips and kneeling picturesquely between his spread thighs. An obliging breeze ruffles her hair. "Tell me I'm...radical."

"Okay."

"You didn't actually tell me. I'm being self-referential here, c'mon."

"What?" Sollux asks, staring at her rumble spheres. "Oh. You're radical. So, uh, rad."

"Totally. To the max."

"Yes."

"Tell me you wanna see my rad chili."

"Your what?" he asks blankly. "No, fuck it, fine, I want to see your rad chili."

"Sweet." She unzips the suit further, pulling it down past her hips. Her bulge is bigger and thicker than his, slick and teal and hanging in a long, heavy curl against her thighs. "You know what comes next." The tip waves at him.

"Please. Anything." She settles down and inches her bulgetip along his thigh, tracing a teal smiley face on his skin. "I'm going to catch on fire if you don't," he adds. The situation is surreal enough that it feels like an ordinary thing to say, like without further explanation she will understand.

"Yeah," she agrees, "feels like that sometimes." She coils her bulge around his so slowly, the length and girth enough to cocoon over half of it in squirming flesh, that by the time she's finished he's reduced to whining jelly. His tendril pushes against the ridged spiral surrounding it, the tip sliding into the slippery crevices between her coils as his shaft pushes against the slick, elastic walls. He realizes with a pang of humiliation that he's moaning, rocking his hips against her without consciously thinking about it, that her hands on his waist are there to steady him. That she's gotten him this far without pushing him over the edge is a minor miracle. "Hehehe, you're sensitive."

"You're fucking huge," he breathes. Her bulge contracts around his, makes it involuntarily struggle and fail to withdraw in the face of pleasure it can't control. The mingled lubrication drips on his belly and trails down his hips in slick rivulets.

"Yeah. But you're cool too, you're normal. Even if you weren't normal, though, it's all good. Feels good." She leans heavily on him once his rocking gets steady and manageable, plants her elbows on either side of him, and rolls her hips forward to better meet his thrusts. The tip of her bulge curls backward into its own thick coils and finds his sensitive bulgetip trapped inside the spiral, curls around it with insane, impossible dexterity as the rest of the coils grip and stroke his shaft with her longer thrusts. "I mean sure, I'm way above average, but who's measuring."

"Nnnargh!" Sollux answers, helplessly convulsing.

"Yeah, aside from you though. The point is we're having fun."

"Ah, _ah_ , ah, f-fuck, I can't hold it if you-"

"Nah, you're doing fine." Her spheres move heavily with each push and he closes his eyes again, biting his lip against the incoherent noises that want to erupt from his mouth. His abdomen is alight with heat and he presses his head back against the ground to feel it as she rocks him harder, the gentle flexion of his neck and the way that his spine is like an electric chain delivering ecstatic jolts to some part of his thinkpan that overrides impulse control. "Any time now, you know? You don't have to wait. I can go forever."

"Auuuh," he groans, a hideous little noise that comes from some secret deep space in himself where he thinks he must have stored every embarrassing sound he has managed not to make over the years. He has no idea how he looks and no desire to ever know.

"Okay," she answers, somehow getting what he wants before he can put together words, and wraps her arms around him to secure him in place. Her spheres press soft and cool against his fevered skin and an embarrassing whine comes out of him at how good it feels to be close to her. Latula's teeth press against his neck in a grin as she moves her hips and gives his bulgetip one last squeeze, her lips moving against his skin as she whispers something that he can't discern but that drives him abruptly over the edge with a horrible, nasal sound; he shudders and erupts, nook releasing his thick fluid in a messy, spreading gush across the ground, his legs stiffening beneath hers. "There you go," she says as she holds him steady, letting him shake and gasp and go rigid in her arms until the flow of genetic material subsides. She looks completely unruffled. Her bulge uncoils and releases his exhausted bulge, already beginning to retract. "Feeling good?"

"Augh." He goes limp and quivering as a beached squid, twitching several times for good measure. "Fff, fffuck. Guh. Holy _shit_."

"Yeah, you're a mess, look at you!" she exclaims affectionately. "You got laid so hard. Epic win."

"Oh, god, don't say that out loud." Sollux presses the heels of his hands against his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment. The air is cool against his hot skin and Latula allows him to lie still without saying anything, without doing anything; he feels sleep overtaking him and forces himself awake, eyes half-open and staring at the stars. "How can I get you off. I should do that."

"You should give me a gratitude high-five first," she says conspiratorially, taking one of his limp hands and slapping her palm against his so hard that he feels the bones in his arm jostle against each other. "Okay, roll over." Sollux, slightly dazed, flops over and feels her lift his hips up. "Don't worry, it's not going where you think."

"This is unflattering." He folds his arms on the soft grass and rests his head on them, grimacing.

"What? Nah. This is great." She pats his upraised ass affectionately, two pats and then a slap that brings a half-stifled cry from his mouth. "Just think of it as a high-five... _for your ass_."

"Fuck you!"

"I know what's wrong," she says sagely before she pats the other side twice. Sollux tenses just in time for the second slap, growling uselessly, neither resisting nor trying to escape. "There, now it's wicked symmetrical," she assures him as her hands close firmly around his hips. She kneels behind him and he feels her bulge against his closed legs, wriggling insistently, the tip pressing hungrily in. "Yeah, just like that." The slickness of his genetic material makes it easy for her to push between his thighs, rocking him forward. Ignoring the sting of his flesh, he wonders idly how she keeps her suit clean and chalks it up to dreambubbles.

"Can I do anything?" he asks after a minute, lubricating fluid trailing slowly down with a faint tickling sensation as her bulge thrusts between and wraps around his legs, squirming, the muscles of it pulling and squeezing at him as she fucks his closed thighs. His own arousal has faded, but a faint, fond, satiated warmth grows in his thorax despite the unexpected workout of staying upright.

"It's cool," she pants, speeding up and leaning on him in a way verging on uncomfortable. "You're warm, it's nice." He pushes back against her like he wants it and presses his legs closer together, loosening and tightening unsteadily, enjoying the hitch in her breath as she speeds up.

"Better?" he asks, as her hands tighten around his hips. More relaxed than he would have expected, like his anxiety has been removed and replaced with cotton wool, Sollux closes his eyes. He focuses on the sensation of being jostled, pushed forward and back, the blind hunger of the bulge squirming between his legs. It feels nice to be wanted.

"Yeah, sweet," she says, breathy and quick, and before long she goes tense and her full weight bears down on him, thick fluid pattering to the grass. She lifts herself up and away, bracing herself on his back, and by the time he rolls over and sits up she looks as fresh as if nothing had happened. He sees it, though, the same satiety in her expression, and the thought that he caused it fills his thorax with satisfaction. "Pretty tubular dream."

"Let's dream about ablution traps next," Sollux sighs, examining his thighs, the colors splashed across his skin and the grass. "That would be...gnarly."

"Oh, shit yeah, now you're getting it." Latula grins at him, white teeth simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.

Sollux smiles back.


End file.
